Ring Ring!
by Crazycatscarmen
Summary: Ford gets a phone call one night from his estranged twin- Stanley. All Ford knows was that it was all very, very confusing. Phone call au, I love this. Posting this to celebrate being back to writing for the next week or so! Yay! Will be updated...eventually. T for violence.
1. The freak just happened?

**HEY HO, BACK TO TORTURE YER SOULS! Here we go: (Blood warning, and minor character death.)  
**

* * *

Ford groaned, pushing himself off his bed for the third time that week. It seemed when Fiddleford finally managed to get Ford on a proper sleep schedule, something had to come up and ruin it. One night it had been strange noises echoing from the kitchen, the next a late-night adventure with some nocturnal species in the area, and tonight it was the phone. He had hoped that whoever it was would give up after the first few rings, but it appeared that they were going to ride out the entire thing until someone answered.

That's why Ford was now stomping irritably to the telephone down the hallway, rubbing his sleep-heavy eyes with one hand as he answered the phone with the other.

"Gre-Greetings." Ford yawned loudly, unable to tone it down while his mind was running on auto-pilot, still half-asleep. "This is Stan-Stanford Pines. Who the frell are you and can I go back to sleep now?"

Ford blinked as he heard a soft laugh on the other end of the line, his mind slowly catching up with what was happening. He nearly jumped when someone actually responded. He had been getting a few prank calls lately and assumed it was just another group of insolent teenagers looking for a laugh.

" _Uh, hey Ford. Look, I gotta say this fast and then I gotta go, ya hear me? I just wanted ta say I'm sorry and that I-I love ya nerd."_

Ford gaped at into the receiver, his mind suddenly shocked awake. "What?" He ran his fingers through his hair, eyes wide, "Stanley!? Is that you?!" Ford asked, barely keeping himself from shouting. Ford began to pace and he abruptly stopped when he heard muffled shouting on the other end. Stanley mumbled something that sounded an awful lot like a string of profanities and Ford repeated himself.

"Stanley? Is that you? What's going on? Dangit Stanley, say somethi-"

" _Sorry, bro, I gotta bounce, but that was, I just wanted ta say I'm sorry, okay? I'm sorry and I hope-never mind. Bye."_ The phone went dead and Ford stared at it in bewilderment.

 _You call out of the blue after eight years and then just hang up!? What the frell, Stanley?! What was all that shouting about? Why were you calling? Nonono, is he alright? Stanley, why-_

 _Oh gosh Stanley, why?_

Ford put the phone down slowly, walking back to his bedroom in a daze. He slipped back into bed and stared at the ceiling, unable to sleep, but unable to properly comprehend what had just occurred. He eventually fell into a doze, still asking himself.

 _Why?_

In the morning, it all seemed like a drunken dream, and Ford was able to push it to the back of his mind like he did everything else. He told himself over and over that it hadn't really happened and ignored the strange looks Fiddleford gave him whenever he did something out of character, still a little punch-drunk and unsatisfied. At the end of the day, Fiddleford couldn't stop himself. Ford wasn't focusing like he usually was, and it had him worried. Fiddleford confronted him about it during lunch:

"Stanferd, ya been acting weird taday, didja sleep alright? What's goin' on?" Fiddleford asked as he handed Ford his dinner plate from top cabinet. Ford started and looked at him with wide eyes,

"Hmm? Sorry, I was thinking."

Fiddleford rolled his eyes, "Well ye've been 'thinkin' all day, I reckon. Why don't ya share yer thoughts with the class, hm?" Fiddleford smiled cheekily and Ford gave him a weak laugh.

"Ha, very funny. No, it's just...it's nothing." Ford poked at his food with his fork, brow furrowing as he began to return to the recess of his mind. Fiddleford snapped his fingers in front of his nose to get him to focus. He had to try and hold back his laughter as Ford looked up again, blinking owlishly at him.

"Nothin' ain't ever really nothin' Stanferd. C'mon, ya can tell me anythin'. I promise I won't judge none."

Ford frowned, pointing his fork at Fiddleford accusingly, "Was that a double negative? I honestly can't trust a word you say." He laughed a bit and smirked, reveling in his small victory. Fiddleford scoffed,

"Now, tha's not fair and ya know it. An' don't think ya can distract me neither. What's goin' on Stanferd, ya got me worryin' like a mother after her new-born child," Fiddleford remarked. It was funny because he was being completely sincere. Ford cocked a brow,

"Um, I'm going to ignore that last bit, because it makes me feel weird, and now that you've successfully weirded me out I suppose I owe you an explanation." Ford huffed and ran a tired hand over his face.

"I," he began, "I had a peculiar dream last night...or, I keep telling myself it was a dream..." Ford trailed off and Fiddleford had to snap again to get back his attention. Ford came back into reality and smiled in apology.

"Yes, well, I just found it disconcerting. You see, in the dream-if, it was a dream- my twin brother called me. He-he told me that he loved me and that he was sorry and then he just, hung up. I'm in shock, that's all. I haven't heard from Stanley in over eight years!" Ford stood up, the chair sliding backward.

"I don't get a peep from him and then he just calls out of the blue! Can you believe it?! And then, I swear I heard shouting on the other end, and Fiddleford! I am freaking out. What if he's hurt?! Why did he call?! It can't have been just to apologize..." Ford leaned against the side of the counter and forced the palms of his hands into his eyes, forcing his glasses up his faces,

"Fiddleford, it sounded like a goodbye." Ford confronted the thought that had been trying to force it's way to the front of his mind for the last few hours.

"It sounded...Fiddleford. I just...I was so angry at him, but now I keep thinking of how tired he sounded, Fiddleford, I've never heard Stanley like that before. It-it scared me." Ford swallowed and turned his eyes back to Fiddleford who was staring at him with a sharp, accusatory gaze. Ford's brow furrowed.

"What?"

"Ya never told me ya had a twin Stanferd."

Oops.

...

Stanley sighed as he hung up the receiver. He had finally done it. He had talked to and told his brother he was sorry. His hands shook and he looked up at the hard gaze of his captor, who sneered at him.

"Are ya done yet, ya little weasel? Last word's an all?" The man chuckled darkly, his voice rough and raspy. Stan nodded.

"Good." The man brought his gun level to Stan's head. "See ya never, Alcatraz." Stan stared right into the barrel, facing death head-on.

 _Click._

The man cursed when the dud pistol didn't fire and he threw it aside, letting it clatter to the ground. Stan released a tense, relieved sigh. The man gave him a withering glare and left, probably to find some other gun to shoot him with. Most men would just stab him with one of the many implements that were available, scattered around the room. But Rico wasn't about to make the same mistake twice. He wanted to make sure Stan was dead. Stan had a great track record when it came to getting out of deadly situations, like a knife in the chest. Rico wasn't one to do something again once it failed the first time.

Stan took that moment to struggle with his bonds again. Both his thumbs were already broken, but the zip ties wouldn't budge. His hands were losing circulation and he wasn't sure how much longer they could stay that way until there was permanent damage. The chair beneath him creaked as he squirmed, and with a spur of the moment idea, he started writhing even harder. He had given up trying to break the bonds.

Now he was trying to break the chair.

The old wooden legs gave way first and he gave himself a mental high-six in victory as his legs, previously tied to the legs of the chair, were...admittedly still tied to the wooden poles, but now he could move! He stood up and looked around the large torture chamber, wincing as he saw his blood on many of the tools. He knew that later he would probably be incapable of moving, but right now he was working on adrenaline.

 _Survive first, survive later._ Stan thought as he looked for something to free his hands with. There were plenty of sharp objects...there! A saw, that would work. Unfortunately, that's when Rico decided to return, holding a much shinier looking gun. Stan ducked as bullets flew above his head, hitting the wall behind with a _clang!_

"Where'd ya go, ya little weasel?!" Rico growled, pushing his way through the tables of tools. Stan stayed low, cold eyes turned on his tormentor. He ran the bonds over the saw he had snuck away as he had fallen to the ground and silently celebrated when the bonds came loose. Rico was still calling out for him, walking around slowly, eyes searching over every aisle. Stan grabbed the first thing he saw and held it in his hands as well as he could as the blood returned to them.

It looked like a giant fork, the prongs long and sharp. He held it in his right hand, his left clenched to strike out in a moments notice. Stan tensed as Rico's foot came into view, and he had to hold back until Rico was in front of him, looking forward to someone that was behind him. Stan lashed out in total silence. Rico didn't see it coming as Stan kicked his legs out from beneath him and let Rico fall onto the prongs of the fork thing, piercing his back right on the spine. Rico's face, red and bulging let out a final screeched cursing Stan's name before going slack.

Stan gaped at the limp body in shock, panting from the exertion.

 _I did it._

 _I'm alive! I did it!_ Stan allowed himself a very brief celebration before returning to the task at hand. He was still bleeding from all over and needed medical attention, and something to eat, he was starved. Literally. Stan didn't even think about the phone call as he limped out of the abandoned warehouse, mentally cheering his victory.

* * *

 **I love the phone call au, and this is my take. I don't own this au, just the plot. Hope you like! I've had this in my doc manager for awhile and wanted to get it out there. Hope it doesn't disappoint! ( I'M BACK FROM ARIZONA! IT WAS SO COOL! No seriously, I saw a CACTUS. HECK YEAH!)**


	2. The freak just happened? Part two!

**Wants some more? Let's go!  
**

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It had been several weeks since the phone call, and tension was high. Ford couldn't focus, the need to know what was going on with his brother eating away at the back of his mind like a parasite. He would make more mistakes while working, and eventually, he got so bad that Fiddleford, who was technically employed _by_ Ford, told him to take a break, and maybe just _call his brother back_.

Ford was next to the landline in moments until he recalled that he didn't know Stan's number, or if he even had one. What if he had called from a payphone? Or some other place that he wasn't liable to stay at for weeks on end? Ford groaned and buried his face into his palms. He took off his glasses and placed them on the table that the phone resided on. Rubbing at his eyelids, Ford contemplated the last few weeks and his behavior.

He was a mess. Nothing was as it should have been. He had never been a great sleeper, but now it was even worse. He forgot to eat, sleep, and neglected even his work, which was mindboggling. Ford didn't do anything _other_ than work. Ford couldn't really blame Fiddleford for being concerned.

Perching his glasses back on his nose, Ford made a decision. He had a problem, and that problem was the mystery of his brother.

And now he was determined to solve it.

...

Many, _many_ favors from Fiddleford and his many acquaintances later (Ford didn't have any of his own to beg from) He finally made progress in the search for his brother.

It appeared that Stanley hadn't been up to anything good these last eight years. He appeared under many different names and seemed to have a pretty long track record under each and every one of them. Every time Ford felt indignation at how his brother had been acting, he remembered the way Stan had sounded, and it flooded out of him, replaced by fear and regret. Anything illegal Stan had done or gone through, Ford was sure it was because he had been trying to survive. It's not like most well-paying establishments enjoyed hiring adults without high-school diplomas. The very thought made Ford swallow nervously. Was Stanley even...

Alive?

Ford shook himself, unwilling to let the thought fester. Although, he didn't allow himself any hope either. He wasn't sure that wasn't worse, the hope.

Hope was the start of nightmares, and he really didn't need any more of those.

...

The day Ford thought he might have actually located his brother down to at the street at the very least, he laughed with joy. He could practically taste the closure on his tongue. Fiddleford looked relieved, glad that whatever Ford was going through was getting closer to its end because it was kinda freaking him out.

Pushing himself off the desk chair he had been working in, Ford ran to the phone and began dialing the number of the motel he was seventy-six percent sure Stan was staying at. A lady answered and he asked for a certain Hal Forester to be put on the line. Ford listened to the hold music with a buzzing excitement. His glasses nearly fell off his face as he bounced in place, impatient.

Ford had sorted through a lot of emotions before he got to this point. At first, he was scared, yet still angry. Stan had ruined his life, after all. Then, as the weeks of that nagging, slimy voice in the back of his mind overtook him, he thought of everything his brother had been through. He dwelled on things that made his skin crawl in fear. Tales and rumors that would make any decent member of society lock themselves in their homes. Ford began to fear for his brother, which he didn't bother trying to ease. The fear was better than hope. Then at least, if worst comes to worst, he would be prepared for it.

And if best came to best...well. Ford wasn't very tempted to think about that. Seeing as the odds were not in Stan's or his favor.

The waiting music came to an end, and Ford gulped. He took a breath, not realizing he hadn't been breathing. Clearing his throat, he prepared to introduce himself but jumped when the man on the other end (hopefully Stan) Beat him to the punch.

"Hey. Who is this? I swear if you think I'm a plumber, I'm telling' ya, ya got the wrong number!" The man's voice sounded rushed as if he were in a hurry.

Ford stilled. He could barely breathe. "Stanley?"

His voice came out in a whisper, filled with emotion and, dare I say it, hope.

Silence. Ford cleared his throat.

"I apologize, thank you for the explanation, but I'm not looking for a plumber, I'm looking for a knuckleheaded, twenty-six-year-old that has my face. His name is Stanley." Ford's voice shook as he spoke, but it was almost imperceptible. Despite the crawling fear he was beginning to feel that maybe he had been wrong-

"Sixer?"

Ford's lips broke into a grin and his eyes welled with unshed tears. "Stanley?"

"Poindexter! It's really you! Yeesh, why didn't ya just say so? Look, I can't talk for long, so why don't ya get to the point, alrigh'?"

Ford fell against the wall in relief. He had been plagued by nightmares of the many ways his brother could have died, some of the worst being suicide, the way he had sounded the first time suggested it to him as a strong possibility and it really shook him, but here he was! Stan, alive and sounding...well, still tired, but pleased.

"Stan, you're- you're alive! Stanley! How could you have done that to me?!" Ford pushed himself off the wall and glared at the receiver, brow furrowing in concerned, anxious anger. Like that of a terrified mother who just found her child the aisle over. "I was a mess for weeks! What on earth were you calling for?! What was all the shouting about?! Stanley, you better have a darn good explanation for this..." Ford's hand was tightened around the handle of the phone and his jaw was clenched tight enough to break bone. When he was met with more silence on Stan's end, Ford felt his indignation dissipate and the fear return, making his voice sound small, like a kitten's mew.

"Stanley? I'm sorry, I didn't mean- are you still there?" Ford swallowed, his large, strong fingers tapping hurriedly against his leg.

"Uhh, yeah? Um, sorry Sixer, I- I'm sorry, I remember now, but can you call me back? Not really a good time-" Stan took a breath to steady his voice which was getting increasingly more anxious. " Yeah, ok. Nevermind, you can't call me, but I'll call you when I'm sa-have more time. Okay? Bye bro."

"Stanley wait-" The phone beeped, recognizing the call was over and Ford was cut off, left in a daze of bewilderment. He placed the phone back onto the hook and stared at it, trying to analyze every word said and the sentiments behind them.

Stan didn't sound upset to hear from him- in fact, he sounded happy, yet...he wouldn't stay to talk. Ford couldn't have sworn Stan was about to say 'safe'. Was Stanley not in a safe place? Ford groaned. He had finally made progress but ended up with even more questions. He stepped away from the phone with a deep breath to clear his head. He needed some coffee.

Until then he would just have to wait.

 _'I'll call you.'_

He better.

* * *

 **...yeah.**

 **Stan: What's wrong with me now? Am I being chased by mountains lions? Is a murderous clown coming after me? WHY DO YOU DO THIS TO ME?**

 **Ford: Can I...? Nevermind.**

 **Me: What?**

 **Ford: It's silly, I just...Stanley?**

 **Stan: Yeah...?**

 **Ford: You know that I...Ahem. I _care_ , don't you? **

**Stan *punches Ford's shoulder, Ford rubs at his arm with a smile*: Yeah, I know. You Nerd.**

 **:P I have no excuse for what just happened. GOODNIGHT MARSHMALLOWS! And a happy thanks to my readers and reviewers!**


	3. Is this any good? I'm sleep deprived

**I'm going to be honest, it's six in the morning, and I still haven't slept. I did clean the house and take a shower, but still...eh. I'll sleep later. ONWARD!  
**

* * *

Stan sighed. He leaned down and rested his head on the steering wheel. It had been three days since his brother had contacted him at that accursed motel. He really wished he hadn't hung up the way he did, but when you have angry druggies on your tail, you really don't have much of a choice.

He had been driving around the empty streets for awhile, and had finally located a payphone. Now he was just attempting to muster the courage to get out of the car.

The last time Stan had phoned his brother, he had been strapped to a chair, waiting for a bullet to bite his brain. Now, without knowing what to say or even think, he was going to attempt to carry a real conversation, and considering how vehement Ford had sounded three days earlier, Stan knew he was going to be doing a lot of explaining. Or, more accurately, a lot of lying and deflecting.

Pushing his head off the wheel, Stan opened the door to the car and forced his hand into his pocket. He had just enough change to carry him through one phone call, at the very least.

Forcing the dimes and quarters through the slot, he managed to get the operator to dial his brother's number for him, and Stan leaned against the pole, eyes flitting about nervously. Stan thought this might be the most terrifying thing he had ever done. _I might actually get to make amends, huh._

Stan was suddenly pulled from his thoughts when someone answered. He naturally slipped on his salesman smile as the man introduced himself.

"Howdy, Fiddleford Mcgucket, Pines household fer ya." The man _had_ to be southern, Stan chuckled slightly, the knot in his stomach easing the tiniest bit.

"Uh, hey. I'm looking for my brother? Ford?" Stan asked hesitantly. He wasn't sure if this man, whoever he was, knew he even existed. His worries were unfounded.

"Well I'll be roasted over a spittle and deep fried! Ya must be the elusive Stanley Pines. If ya'll hold, I'll be back directly with yer brother."

Stan fought the urge to snort. "You do that."

"One moment."

Stan rolled his eyes into the empty air. Where on earth did Ford find this guy? He turned his attention back to the phone when a breathless voice made itself known.

"Stanley?!"

"What, did you run over here? I'm not going anywhere just yet Ford." Stan smiled at how winded Ford sounded, and the huff of annoyance that followed. Bulls-eye!

"Well, you did hang up on me last time, Stanley. You haven't got the best track record so far." Ford sounded victorious, as if he had already won their little bout of banter.

"Hey! You were the one who thought it would be best to call me in the middle of the night. How'd you find me anyway?" Stan straightened from his relaxed position. This was important if he was going to stay out of his enemies hands for any amount of time, because if Sixer could find him, so could they.

"Lots and lots of searching, Stanley, you have no _idea_ how worried I've been! You still owe me an explanation. Why are you in Mexico? Are you okay? What on earth did you mean when you called last month, Stanley!?"

Stan's eyes widened, he huffed a laugh, "Whoa! Calm down Poindexter, all shall be answered in time, or something like that. I'm fine, really. And last month I may or may not have been drunk. See? It's all fine."

Stan knew he was lying. He was glad of it, really. What was he going to say? Oh yeah, I called because it was something I've been dying to say for the last eight years, but I only had the courage to do so when my all time enemy, who I've killed, was pointing a gun at my head!

Yeah, smooth.

Waiting for an answer, Stan grew silent, and fidgeting when that's all he was met with. Silence.

"Ford? You there?" Stan asked nervously.

"Don't lie to me, Stanley." Ford sounded dead serious and Stan swallowed.

"What are ya talking about, Ford? I wasn't lying!"

Okay, bad Idea.

"STANLEY PINES! I am your twin brother and spent most of my life by your side! Don't you think I can tell when your lying?!"

Dang, Ford sounded ticked. Stan blinked. He could slowly feel his mask fading away, being overwhelmed by the deep depression that had been circling him for years. Stan curled in on when Ford shouted, and his voice grew very quiet.

"Sorry, sorry. You just don't want to hear the truth."

Stan heard Ford sigh, he could almost imagine how Ford shoved his glasses halfway up his face to rub the bridge of his nose in exasperation.

"I do, I really do. Stanley, your not the only one who should be apologizing. No, you really shouldn't be apologizing at all." A pause," What I mean to say is- ugh. Will you come visit me down here in Oregon, Stanley?" Ford's voice grew a tad softer, "Please?"

Stan blinked in surprise, again. "What?"

"I'm asking you to come down to Oregon. Gravity Falls, gopher road. I- I think you might find my living accommodations amusing, if that's any motivation."

Well this isn't how he thought this particular conversation would go. Without giving it too much thought, Stan readily agreed. "Sure."

"Really!?" Ford squeaked. He cleared his throat, "I mean, great! I'll, I'll see you soon, then."

Stan nodded numbly, "Yep."

The phone beeped and suddenly it was over, and Stan realized what he had just agreed to. Dang it! Why on earth did he do that?! Stan supposed he had been so shocked by the offer, he had just replied on auto-pilot.

 _What have I gotten myself into this time?  
_

* * *

 **Stan: I'm hungry, anyone want a sandwich?**

 **Ford: No thank you, question, what does a sandwich have to do with the story?**

 **Stan: Nothing, I'm just hungry.**

 **Me: Can I have a sandwich?**

 **Stan: No.**

 **Yeah...I'm hungry. I didn't eat yesterday...it doesn't even feel like yesterday, because I didn't sleep! Okay, going to go take care of myself now. I'm not even depressed! I just...forgot. Man, I'm worse than Ford...**


	4. Does anyone notice the chapter headings?

**I AM GOING INSANE! Have a chapter:  
**

* * *

Agony.

That's what the past seventy-two-hours had been for Stanford Pines.

The first night, he didn't sleep. He just sat by the phone in complete silence, waiting for Stanley to call back. The second night, his body forced itself into a deep rem sleep, but it was punctured by heart-pumping terror as he shot up from the nightmares that refused to give him rest.

The third day, Fiddleford had forced him to eat something, going as far as to threaten him with a spoon feeding. Ford could feed himself, thank you very much.

 _Well, you aren't doin' a very good job, are ya?_

Ford knew Fiddleford was concerned. He just didn't have the energy to do anything about it. Well, he did eat some, which he supposed made Fiddleford feel a bit better. In fact, he had been in the kitchen when it happened.

Fiddleford had made him sit down at the table to eat, claiming the phone would be right where he left it and walked into the hallway. Ford watched him as he left, grateful, but also feeling a bit guilty. Ford knew he could be hard to live with. Goodness knows it's something his mother loved to remind him about whenever she wanted a favor. Ford returned to his food, barely tasting it as his mind mulled over his previous guilt and the newest additions. Could he ever do anything right?

The realization had come slowly over the past month, that Stanley was never really to blame. He made a dumb mistake, sure. But so did Ford. Ford's was even worse, by comparison. He let his brother, his protector, his friend, get thrown out, underage, onto the streets. Ford had to resist to face plant into his dinner plate and lament over his blunders for the rest of eternity.

Ford froze when he heard murmuring down the hall. He jumped when Fiddleford stuck his smiling face through the doorway. "He's on the phone, Stanferd."

Jumping up so quickly, that the chair fell backward, Ford rushed to the phone, so out of shape that he was out of breath when he picked up the receiver. "Stanley?!" Ford's voice filled with a sharp sort of hope.

"What, did you run over here? I'm not going anywhere just yet Ford." Ford closed his eyes, relieved. He could already feel the nightmares melting away under Stan's deep , familiar voice. Ford huffed with a fake annoyance.

"Well, you did hang up on me last time, Stanley. You haven't got the best track record so far." Ford smirked slightly, he had missed the silly fights all siblings enjoyed indulging in. It had been so long since Ford had worked with anything...fun.

"Hey! You were the one who thought it would be best to call me in the middle of the night. How'd you find me anyway?" Stan asked. Ford straightened up a bit when he heard the change in tone the conversation had taken. It was minor, but not so much that Ford didn't notice.

"Lots and lots of searching, Stanley, you have no _idea_ how worried I've been!" Ford gestured to thin air, as if Stanley would be able to see exactly how freaked out Ford had been, even though they were miles away from one another. "You still owe me an explanation. Why are you in Mexico? Are you okay? What on earth did you mean when you called last month, Stanley?!"

Ford scowled at the phone when he heard a breathy laugh.

"Whoa, calm down Poindexter, all shall be answered in time, or something like that. I'm fine, really. And last month...I may or may not have been drunk. See? It's all fine." Stan sounded so...calm. Ford held the phone away from his face and fell back against the wall again. Stanley was a good liar, the best really. But Ford knew all his ticks. It was a privilege of being a man's twin, he supposed. Ford brought the receiver back up to his face and spoke quietly, doing his best to control his ire at being lied to.

Ford put the phone back up to his ear in enough time to hear Stanley stutter a nervous 'are you there,' into the mic. Ford spoke through his teeth. He was so done with everything. It didn't seem like such a big deal to an outsider like Mcgucket, but this entire situation had really did a number on Ford's health. Mental, emotional, and physical. He had so much built up baggage when it came to his brother, he could practically feel the weight of it on his shoulders.

"Don't lie to me, Stanley."

"What are ya talking about, Ford? I wasn't lying!"

Everyone had a breaking point, and that was Ford's. All his pent up emotion was beginning to boil over, and he never had a chance. Ford was standing tall, glaring at the wall as he spoke. Had Stan been there in person, he would have been reminded of Filbrick, towering over him from that doorway all those years ago.

"STANLEY PINES! I am your twin brother and spent most of my life by your side! Don't you think I can tell when you're lying?!"

Silence. Ford stood still. He wasn't sure he could move forward from his outburst.

"Sorry, sorry. You just don't wanna hear the truth." Stan sounded very quiet, and Ford felt his anger melt away once more. He leaned back again, feeling spent. Pushing his glasses up his face, he rubbed at his eyes.

"I do, I really do. Stanley, your not the only one who should be apologizing." Ford shook his head, "No, you really shouldn't be apologizing at all." Ford paused. He had been think about this for awhile, almost ever since the first phone call, but he wasn't sure how Stan would react or if he would even want to accept at all. What if he hated Ford? Ford couldn't really blame him. Ford himself had held a grudge against the man for eight years, so it wasn't unlikely. But oh how Ford wished to make amends. If Ford had a fault, it was that he never really saw things clearly when emotions were involved, often pushing them away and locking them up because they were just so darn complicated for the logically genius of Stanford Pines.

It wasn't healthy and he knew it.

Ford bit his lip, he had worried horribly over what Stan might say, but he couldn't wait forever. Ford swallowed, "What I mean to say is-ugh." Ford ran his hand down over his face, "will you come visit me down here in Oregon, Stanley?" Ford added a quiet "please?"

Ford nearly jumped out of his skin when a readily supplied, "sure" reached his ears. Ford's face lit up in a relieved smile, "Really?!" Ford's voiced cracked as he spoke and he cleared his throat in embarrassment. "I mean great! I'll, I'll see you soon then." Ford asked, a tinge of hope colouring his words. {Dang you auto-correct! I can use the British version if I wanna!}

"Yep." Stan answered simply. Before Ford could say goodbye, the call must have timed out, because it beeped in his ears, indicating his session was at an end. Ford sighed.

He had a lot of cleaning to do.

* * *

 **Stan: Wow, Ford is really over-dramatic. He gets one creepy phone call, and is suddenly having mental break downs.**

 **Ford: Excuse me! That is entirely unfair. You must have really freaked me, I mean him, whatever, out! Imagine thinking I was suicidal! How would you fare?**

 **Stan *backing away*: Dang, you okay? You know it's just a story, right?**

 **Ford *Deep breath*: Yes...**

 **Stan*Brow furrowing in concern*: Um...wanna call the kids?**

 **Ford*nodding***

 **Stan*walks out of room, Ford follows***

 **Me: Ford has issues, but I love him anyway! Hope this wasn't a waste of your time! Not bothering to make sure this makes sense, just going to post so I can go work. I have a lot of stuff to catch up on after my trip, so this might take a while. Don't worry ya'll! I'm working on my other fics. Including, but not limited to 'in a universe all alone' and 'never again'. So look out for those updates! :)**


	5. No one notices these things? Really?

***Pops a tootsie pop in her mouth* Here ya go, Nerds. New chapter for ya.  
**

 **Tw: Mental health issues. suicidal tendencies etc. If it bothers you, you can skip this chapter. Not super descriptive though, if that makes a difference.**

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Stan was sitting on the edge of his bed, staring at his few possessions. Laid out before him on the motel bed, were two pairs of clothes, a pair of knuckle busters, some reusable bandages (very useful) and an old prescription bottle. It was yellowed and empty, but Stan couldn't take his eyes off it. It took him back to the time when he was stuck in _that_ place. It wasn't like most mental institutes. Everything there had been coloured like a rainbow as if they were all in a children's doctor room and not people who had gone insane. Or, as what was more common, was just a bother to the 'normal' folks and thrown away so they wouldn't have to be seen or dealt with again.

Stan hated the rainbow, even though he knew it wasn't the colours fault.

Stan had been 'unpacking' to see if there was anything he could do about his wardrobe because, to be honest with himself? It was rank. He smelled and looked like a homeless man. Not that that wasn't true, per say- but he didn't need Ford to know that. Ford could be pretty dense when he wanted to be. After all, Ford only knew was that he was in Mexico and living out of a motel. Nothing _too_ suspicious. It was when he took everything out of his bag to clean it out, the bottle had fallen with it. Stan ended up stock still on the edge of the bed, lost in memories.

He didn't know if his brain had even been on when he agreed to visit his brother. Stan had too many issues to face his twin now! Even if Stan managed to clean himself up a bit, he still had bandages wrapped around nearly every part of him (last months wounds still hadn't healed properly- he kept agitating them) and he had more than one scar on his face. What if Ford found out what he had done? He had killed a man! Well, Rico hadn't been his first, but still! That's not just something someone waves away. Then, there was the mental institute.

It had been five years since Stan managed to escape that heck-hole. He still shuddered at the memories he created there, woke up from nightmares with a scream in his throat. What if Ford found out about that? That he was considered crazy? Sure, slicing open your own arm isn't _good,_ but it doesn't make him a crazy person!

He didn't even recall making the decision to cut himself, not so deeply, anyway.

Stan was more frightened of the idea of Ford finding out than scared he might do it again. He thought he'd gotten over all that fairly well, considering.

Now, he wasn't sure what to do. He looked like he had been cut up to pieces, then sewn back together by some quack doctor who forgot to mention he had no idea how to stitch someone back together. Stan fell backward unto the bed, coughing when dust from the dirty sheets tickled his throat. Maybe he could just cancel? Stan had thought about it but really didn't want to. Despite everything, Stan really did want to see his brother again. He just didn't want his brother to find out what a mess he was.

Stan sighed and made a decision. He couldn't cancel- not now. But, he could delay a bit. They had never specified any time that he should visit.

Then, maybe when he was ready, he'd have 'obtained' a new, clean wardrobe. Maybe one that could cover up the scars. Now wouldn't that be nice?

* * *

 **I was debating whether to add Ford's pov to this chapter, but got lazy...so yeah. Is this bad? I read Dipper and Mabel's guide to having fun, and it mentioned Stan and his 'loony bin days', and I've seen a lot of this headcanon floating around, so I decided to try my hand at it! Yay for angst! You like? I know this wasn't very good...sigh. Here, have some crystalized candy with chewy weird stuff inside! *Hands you tootsie pop* I know! ItS MORE FILLER! I JUST! I just...I...? :/ *sigh* Next chapter should be put up in about an hour, I love writing this stuff.**

 **Stan: You are so weird.**

 **Me: I know.**


	6. CAAAAAAAAAAAAAATTTTTTSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS

**Poor baby.  
**

* * *

Ford was quite possibly going insane.

It had been three weeks since he had last heard from his brother, and Ford had no idea what to make of it. What if Stanley had decided he hated him after all? What if he had gotten hurt? What was stopping him from calling? Surely, if there was a delay in traveling up here or an issue of some sort, Stan would call and let Ford help him?

Stupid question, of course he wouldn't.

Ford clenched his hair in a balled up fist, trying, for the millionth time (not really, it was closer to fiftieth, but Ford was too distracted to count properly) to focus on his work. He and Fiddleford had nearly died that day trying to get a good look an enchanted grove without agitating the natives. Unfortunately, magical bees weren't to keen on letting in outsiders, good intentions or no. He was now trying to sketch the creatures, and the grove from memory and the pencil just wasn't cooperating. It didn't help his mind kept conjuring images of everything that could possibly go wrong when his brother was on the other side of the country.

Ford gave up. He set the book down with a sigh and looked up at the clock. It read one am. Ford rubbed at his eyes. Fiddleford was probably already in bed by now.

Fiddleford, the poor man.

Ford hadn't been doing well, which meant neither was Fiddleford. Ford swore up and down that man had a heart of gold. He could see how much his pain was bothering Fidds, but he didn't know what to do about it, other than stop being in pain. But it wasn't that easy. If Ford had an ounce of Stanley's talent, he might try and pretend he was fine, for Fiddleford's sake, but he didn't. He couldn't lie to save the world. Ford felt his head fall onto his desk and didn't fight it as his body forced him to sleep once again. The nightmares were worth it if him getting sleep made Fiddleford feel better.

A couple hours later, and Ford bolted upright. Blinking awake quickly. He looked around in confusion. Nothing he dreamt about had scared him awake, his heart wasn't beating, and other than the fog of sleep, he felt fine. So what had woken him up? Ford tensed up again when he heard a noise. It sounded like a car engine. Brow furrowing in curiosity, Ford sat up and walked towards the window. Looking out into his yard, he stopped.

A red car had parked itself in his driveway. It took Ford's sleep-deprived mind a moment to recognize it. _The StanleyMobile!_ Ford felt all of his spirits lift. It was Stan! He had made it! Ford was still staring out the window, hoping, begging for Stan to get out of the car, to confirm what Ford was thinking. _My brother finally made it home._

No one exited the car. Ford felt his smile fall off his face. He had no idea what time it was, but that didn't mean Stan (Please, oh please be Stan) was just going to sit in his car until morning, did it?

Another minute went past and Ford bit his lip with anxiety. Turning swiftly, he moved to grab his coat and made towards the stairs to the front door. If Stanley wouldn't come to him, he would go to Stanley.

Pulling on his trenchcoat as he walked, he made sure to grab his crossbow on his way out the door. He usually reserved it for the more hostile creatures the forest had to offer, but if that wasn't Stanley in that car, he wasn't going to take any chances.

The door swung open quietly and Ford thanked its good craftsmanship. Stepping outside into the chilly air- winter was nearly upon them- Ford walked up slowly towards the end of the car and around to the driver's seat.

Inside, a man with long brown hair, and curled up in a sweater, along with a scruffed up red jacket, sat in the cold. Ford could see his breath come out of his mouth in puffs, yet he wasn't shivering. In fact, he looked relaxed. Ford felt his features soften in compassion and knocked lightly on the window, making sure to keep his weapon out of view.

The man uncurled with a start and glared at him before they both looked at one another with surprise. Ford could feel two months worth of emotion resurfacing at that very moment.

Stanley was staring at him in shock as if he had been expecting one thing but had been dealt another and he didn't know how to deal with it. Ford wondered what he might have been expecting, seeing as how Ford's appearance made sense. It was his house after all, but Ford figured he didn't want to know.

Ford didn't move, he could feel his lips turn up in an involuntary smile, but didn't otherwise move. Stan was the one who broke the staring contest. Ford stepped back when Stan moved to open the door and step out of the car.

Stan slid out and leaned against his car, being very still. As if he were tensed up for something. He was the first one to speak.

"Uh, hey. So...I made it."

Ford's smile grew wider as Stan spoke, reassuring him that it was real and not the beginning of one of his many nightmares. Ford had always been susceptible to them, but having Stan there made them seem inconsequential. Ford tried to say something, but nothing made it past his throat, so he opted for a nod instead. Seeing Stan looked uncomfortable with the silence, Ford did his best to swallow back the emotion that had tried to overwhelm him and make an attempt at conversation.

"Stanley?" Ford was still tired, he knew he was, but his mind hadn't seemed to have gotten the memo. Everything felt heightened, yet his words were trying to play catch up with the many thoughts running through his mind. Ford couldn't be sure in the darkness, it was night after all, but it seemed to him that Stan smirked.

"Yeah Ford, it's me. You, uh, wanna go inside? Ya, look kinda...cold."

It was true, Ford hadn't cared to notice, but he was trembling from the cold, which was worse than he anticipated. _Was Stanley really determined to stay out here all night?_ The thought made his insides freeze, more so than the freezing wind did. Ford nodded and beckoned for Stan to follow him up the steps. He saw Stan hesitate, but Ford wouldn't allow it.

"Make yourself at home."

At the word home, Stan flinched, but Ford didn't notice. He was too busy hiding away the crossbow. No need to freak out his little brother with something as questionable as _that._ Ford hid it away and turned on the lights, blinking to let his eyes adjust. Throwing off his coat onto the coat rack beside the door, Ford stepped further inside and turned to see Stan's reaction.

Stan stepped inside hesitantly, hands staying in the pockets of his jacket. Stan blinked at the intensity of the light, before letting his gaze wander over the room.

It was fairly large, and comfortable, but _reeked_ of a single man, or men. Stan's face broke into a small smile, the edges of his lips tilting upward as he noted the piles of paper everywhere. It was so Ford to do that, to just leave his work anywhere, it nearly made Stan laugh. Ford watched all this with apprehension, and when Stan looked up, he remembered he was supposed to be playing host. Ford cleared his throat nervously as he thought of what to do. Stan jumped at the noise and Ford took a proper moment to study Stan himself.

His hair was a lot longer than Ford remembered, nearly touching Stan's shoulders. The jacket Ford had noticed was scruffy earlier, was even worse in the light, although the sweater beneath looked just fine. So did the pants. Perhaps Stan felt the jacket had sentimental value? Either way, it needed a proper clean. Ford's eyes flickered back up to Stan's face and he froze, not sure he was seeing it properly.

There were three long, pink gashes, sprawled across his brothers face. Stan met his gaze, realized why Ford looked so upset, and turned away, hiding them from view. Stan cleared his throat, and Ford snapped out of his daze of horror. Now he wasn't just flushed from the cold. Nothing was worse than being caught staring. Ford would know, he'd caught many guilty looking men and woman staring at his hands, and they all seemed horribly embarrassed at being caught.

Strange being on the other end, and with his twin no less. Stan broke the silence once again before Ford could move any move to apologize or just _say something_.

"It's been awhile, I guess. Sorry about the wait, I would have been here earlier, but I had some issues to take care of first." Ford watched Stan as he gave Ford a tense smile, and Ford knew something was off.

Stan was lying again, maybe not a flat-out lie, but a lie of omission, perhaps? Either way, it bothered Ford to no end, but there was also no way Ford was opening that can of worms, especially not so early in the morning. Ford bit his lip and took a deep breath to help get rid of the nervous pit in his stomach. He turned away again and gestured for Stan to follow him.

"It's more than alright, I just hope you weren't planning on staying outside till morning, the guest room is already ready for you!" Ford let himself babble on about nothing as he showed Stan where his room was. He didn't see the faintly guilty look pass over Stan's face, or notice when Stan didn't interject with his rambling.

"Well, here you are. We can have a proper conversation in the morning I think...then you can meet my associate!" Ford nodded in satisfaction with his own plan. With the few hours of night left, he could probably figure out some way to talk to his brother properly so he could apologize. Stan just nodded.

"Alright then, I guess I'll see you in the morning." Ford hoped so anyway, he still wasn't sure Stan wasn't just going to drive away and never look back. But Stan just nodded again, this time with a brief smile.

"G'night Ford."

Ford smiled softly in return, he had missed those words. "Goodnight, Stanley."

The door shut and Ford was left alone once more. He sighed, he had a lot of work to do.

* * *

 **Idk...I'll leaves the real confrontation of emotion for the next chapter. Does any of this make sense? I hope it does! Thanks for reading and Stuff!**

 **Stan: Stop forgetting about us, will you?**

 **Me: You denied me a sandwich.**

 **Ford: She has a point.**

 **Stan: Shut it, nerds.**

 **Ford: I thought we talked about this.**

 **Stan: Nope.**

 **Me, I apologize, I am very weird. Don't die all! I might get to update tomorrow, so...enjoy!**


	7. You are a human being- Congratulations

**Okay, whoever you are, you are amazing. Mr. Mysterious guest user writes the most awesome reviews and I just can't. Go read them, people, like the one about cats. Please. *dies of laughter and happiness that someone actually likes what I write.* I hope this is good enough for you, Mr. (Or Miss. Mrs? I don't know, they are mysterious) Person. (I tried to make this chapter funny, and I have a weird sense of humor...Sorry.) (I get sleep...sometimes :D)**

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Stan closed the door with a sigh. He had finally made it to Oregon after a month of healing under his belt. He still wasn't completely healed, but it was easy enough to hide underneath the sweater he'd stolen. He actually really hated that sweater, but he hated the thought of Ford seeing his bare arms even more. Having left his bag it the car, Stan turned to examine his living accommodations for the next day or two. (Ford had said 'visit' and Stan wasn't one to get his hopes up.)

It was comfortable enough, well, more like a heaven to Stan, who hadn't seen a properly clean bed in years. Stan allowed himself a brief smile as he laid back on the mattress. It may not last forever, but Stan was going to make the most out of it. He felt a stab of...something when he thought about how Ford asked if he was _r_ _eally going to stay outside till morning._ That had been the plan, but for some reason, it had upset Ford that he would do such a thing. Probably because of how cold it was. Stan didn't think anything of the chill, he'd slept in worse, but Ford had been shivering. Stan's brow furrowed at the thought. He sighed again and closed his eyes as he thought.

Stan had arrived at the house at about four in the morning, so he figured that he would rest for an hour or two before getting up to face Ford and the cowboy. Stan wasn't sure how he was going to handle see Ford again. Moments before, everything had been simple pleasantries, like two old acquaintances having a chat. Stan hadn't had such a pleasant, non-survival oriented conversation in years, hence why he didn't really say anything. No need for his runaway tongue to ruin the moment.

Despite his worries about Ford finding out about him, and somehow driving Ford away again, it had been good to see his twin after so long. It had surprised him how much they still looked alike. Aside from the scars, and the fact that Ford had somehow gotten bulkier than him (Stan didn't get to eat often and Ford usually forgot to eat, but at least when he ate, he ate well. Stan...didn't.) Stan's eyes opened when he remembered the look of undisguised shock and horror when Ford had taken a proper look at his face.

Those scars he had received rather recently...but he didn't really want to dwell on it. He still tensed up at the memories of those three dull metal claws sliding over his cheek down to his chin. Swallowing back the rise of panic in his throat, Stan did his best to shut his mind up. He needed to be on his best behavior later.

Honestly, how do you talk to someone who isn't trying to kill you?

Stan didn't know.

...

About two hours later and the clock on the bedside table read six am. Stan sat up without so much as a groan. He hadn't really rested, more or less laid stiff as a board as he watched the time go by to distract himself from his thoughts. Stan slid off the bed and turned to find a mirror beside a closet door. Stan took a moment to examine his face.

Despite the severity of the wound, the scars were healing quite nicely, in his own opinion anyway. Had he gone to a doctor, they may have been appalled. They were large, pink and knotted, lacking any signs of proper treatment. Stan shrugged it off. It wasn't like they had received any, anyway.

Other than the obvious faults, his face and hair looked clean enough. Stan had enough forethought to finger comb through his long brown locks before tying it back with a rubber band. He really needed a haircut. (But to get a haircut, he'd have to trust himself with a sharp metal object. Or trust someone else with one. Neither one was gonna happen.)

He hadn't bothered to undress for the two hours of not sleeping he had gotten, he hadn't even taken off his shoes.

 _Well, no reason to delay any longer..._ Stan stepped away from the bed and towards the door that led out of the guest room. He wondered if Ford was already up, or maybe that one guy. What had been his name? Did he even have a name for that man? Stan didn't know. Turning the knob slowly, Stan let the door swing open and padded out of the room soundlessly. Stan cocked his head to the side as he listened for voices.

Silence. Stan figured it was safe to walk about without being caught. Despite knowing he was probably safe here, he always took the time to memorize the layout of any place he stayed at. Even if you were a normal upright citizen, Stan thought it was a good idea. At the very least you knew where the exits were in case of a fire.

Walking down the hallway, Stan found himself back into the living room, the room he had entered with Ford just two hours before. Stan let himself look it all over.

It looked even nicer in the morning light. It was still a complete mess, but it obviously wasn't second-hand couches and tables either. Stan smiled at the posters hiding behind a mound of paper. Ford always loved those science posters with the Albert Einstien and such. He shook his head in amusement and moved on.

The next room made Stan stop in surprise.

He hadn't seen the inside of a kitchen for a long, long time. Stan felt almost giddy. He had loved to cook as a child, although he never learned the more fine techniques of the craft. Now he wasn't sure if he could even make something as simple as pancakes.

And it wasn't just the thought of making something that had him excited. There was real, not garbage, not pity food in a kitchen! Stan chuckled at the idea of making breakfast for everyone. His chuckle melted into an excited smile when he figured,

 _Why not?_

...

It took him several attempts, but he finally managed to locate a proper morning meal cookbook. Had he not known what horrible things could be wrought with keeping your tongue between your teeth, it would have probably been sticking out in concentration as he quickly flipped to the 'P' section of the book.

He smiled, his eyes bright with something other than adrenaline for once as he read through the page on pancakes and began locating all the proper tools. As he searched, he managed to find an apron in the process. He cocked a brow in curiosity as he pulled it out and allowed it to unfurl.

It was bright pink and looked like something out of a movie of some sort. Stan snorted, probably a gag gift they had forgotten to get rid of. It looked fairly new and unused. A mischevious smile took over his face as he slipped it over his head. He was having fun for the first time in...awhile.

A while later, when he had successfully begun cooking the pancakes (He had to scrape that sad excuse for a grill first) he turned to see Ford and some other skinny nerd stumble into the kitchen, bleary-eyed and obviously still heavy with sleep. Stan felt his heart speed up but didn't let his anxiety bleed through. He took a moment to examine the stranger. He was small, smaller than both him and Ford. Stan estimated about hundred to hundred twenty pounds. He had long, light brown hair and wore circular spectacles. They both looked up at him in shock as they walked in.

"Stanley!?" Ford rubbed at his eyes as if he couldn't believe what he was seeing. Stan chuckled, he really had missed his nerd.

"Heya Ford. Breakfast? Who's the stick?" Stan gestured to the pile of pancakes, then to the man Stan had identified as Ford's southern friend. The man in question looked at him through squinted eyes.

"Is tha' a pink apron? Where on earth didja find such a thing?!" The man snickered, "Ya look ridiculous." He laughed harder, putting a hand to his mouth. Ford just stared at Stan, ignoring his friend for the moment, who was lost in a sleep-deprived haze of amusement.

"What. what are you doing?" Ford looked utterly lost. Stan let a brief flicker of doubt cross his features before hiding them once more.

"Uh, making pancakes? Neither of you was up, and it's not like ya put a lock on your fridge or nothin'." Ford just shook his head,

"No no no! Well, yes, but no! I mean," Ford seemed to collect himself, "I just...Stanley. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." Ford was looking downcast and Stan's brow furrowed in confusion.

"What?" Stan set down the spatula on the stove top, shutting it off in the process. Ford stepped closer, looking nervous, and Fiddleford stopped laughing to watch the scene unfold before him.

Ford cleared his throat. "Stanley, I- I mean to say this before..." Ford looked like he was choking. Stan rolled his eyes. Ford had never been very good with words. Or emotions. Or people, for that matter.

"Ford, just spit it out, will ya? The pancakes are gettin' cold..."

"I'm sorry!" Ford exclaimed. Stan froze. He felt confusion flood him.

"Uh...are you okay?" Stan stepped closer and moved to grab Ford's shoulder, but Ford dodged it and went in for a hug instead, nearly crushing Stan's lungs. Dang, when had Ford gotten so strong? Stan felt his heart rate pick up in panic.

Never, _ever_ let someone get their arms around you. It was something Stan _knew,_ but he couldn't pull away! It was the first hug he'd had with his brother in nearly a decade. He couldn't move away and he couldn't reciprocate, and Ford pulled away, looking tense and faintly embarrassed. Nonono! It wasn't that Stan didn't want to make amends! It was just...habits. Habits that kept him alive. Stan took a deep breath.

"No, Ford. I just- I'm sorry too, okay? Just ah...claustrophobic? I wasn't- that is." Stan sighed and pulled off the apron and set it on the counter. He couldn't very well feel very serious wearing it, which might have been a welcome distraction, but this was his and his brother's reunion on the line. "You have nothing to be sorry for, Ford." Stan looked him right in the eyes. They were still the same height. Nice.

Ford shook his head vehemently, his brown eyes filled to the brim with sorrow that made Stan's head spin."That's not true! I left you out there, I let you leave-"

Holding up a hand, Stan stopped him right there. For the longest time he had dreamed of Ford running back to him with an apology on his tongue, but now that he was, Stan was starting to feel sick. "Okay, fine. You did. I forgive you. Ford, don't beat yourself up. You really aren't doing me a favor drowning yourself in guilt. Why don't you eat some food instead? It would make _me_ feel better if you ate somethin'." Stan looked him over with a scrutinizing eye, mouth curved downward in a slightly disapproving frown. "Let me guess, been skipping meals, right?"

That's when the cowboy Stan had still failed to name spoke up. "I've practically been forcin' food down tha' throat of his for the past month or two! Glad to know one of ya had a sense of self-care." The southern man stared at Ford, his eyes narrowed to slits and Ford shrunk backward guiltily.

Stan barely kept himself from laughing, the tiny man staring down a man twice his size almost too much for him at the moment. "Alright, I think Ford gets it now, Stick." Ford nodded and went to sit at the table. Before he could sit down, however, Stan pulled him into his arms.

Ford grunted and his eyes opened wide with surprise, but he reciprocated nonetheless.

"I really missed ya, Sixer."

Ford took a shaky breath. "I missed you too."

The moment ended and Stan let him go with a laugh. "Alright, enough with the mushy stu-aaah!" Stan trailed off into a shout and they both looked at him in surprise. Stan was leaning against the counter, rubbing at his arms. His teeth were clenched tight, and Fiddleford, who was slightly offended for being called a stick, finally got a proper look at the three scars across his face. Fiddleford gasped.

Stan stopped rubbing his arm and looked up, his body tensed and ready to do...something, when he realized the noise had only been the stick and he smiled apologetically. Ford was staring at him in concern, but hanging behind, unsure of what to do.

"Stanely, are you alright?"

"I'm alright Ford, stick person, I just, worked out my arms a little too much the other day. They were just cramping, I'll be fine." Stan lied. The lie wasn't exactly a lie. It was more of a half-truth. Or a lie of omission, but they didn't know that.

"Well if yer fine, I would appreciate it if ya used my real name." The stick crossed his arms, but he didn't look mad. "I intraduced myself on the phone if ya recall."

Stan's brow furrowed as he thought, his face almost seemed to be set in a permanent frown. "Um...wait, no, I've got this...aha! Mcbucket, right? Somethin' like that..."

The stick sighed and held out his arm for a handshake. "I suppose ya got closer than most. It's Fiddleford Mcgucket, at yer service."

Stan wanted to laugh, so he did. "That is the best thing I have ever heard!" Stan chuckled, holding out his own arm, grasping the tiny man's hand in his large one. "Stanley Pines, supposed salesman, but even I'm not sure if that's what I do. I think it's more like...Stanley Pines! Conman extraordinaire!" Stan smiled wide and his arms went up in the air to describe how amazing he was. He didn't notice when the sleeves fell slightly, revealing the white bandages and raw flesh.

Ford smiled up at them from his seat. "So I guess we're all acquainted now, then?"

Stan chuckled. "I guess so. You two better dig in now before those get cold." Stan pulled a chair out for himself and used his leg to push the other from out from underneath the table for the sti-Fiddleford. Fiddlesticks. Ah, yes, that's better. He took the chair graciously.

Stan dug in, reveling in having food for once, something he felt okay eating since he had made it. He didn't notice the looks the two others were sharing.

 _What in tarnation is on his face, Stanferd!? And did ya see his arms?!_

Ford glared at him and mouthed back, _Later, and yes, but later, alright? This is probably his first meal in-_ He cut off. Stan had looked up and were asking them questions. Why was Fiddlesticks ( _Ford: Fiddlesticks! Oh, I like that one. Fiddleford: Oh don't you dare, Stanferd Pines!)_ there, how he tied into everything, how was Ford doing, how did he end up in Oregon. Ford smiled and stored his concerns away for later. He finally had his brother back.

And he wasn't going to waste his second chance.

* * *

 **I tried. I might edit this later, you never know.**

 **Stan: I am going to poke you.**

 **Ford: What?**

 **Stan: Yep.**

 **Ford: Um...no.**

 **Stan *tries to poke Ford's arm. Ford accidentally judo flips him.***

 **Stan *Gasping from the floor*: Why Ford?**

 **Ford *apologizing over and over*: I said no! I'm sorry, it was instinct!**

 **Stan: IT"S INSTINCT TO JUDO FLIP THINGS THAT POKE YOU?! WHAT THE FRELL FORD?!**

 **Please just tell me if this sucked and I swear I will probably (probably not) to try and fix it. GOODBYE MARSHMALLOWS! :) This will continue, eventually.**


	8. This is a really stupid chapter, sorry

**"We'll be on fire...hands held higher..." "I saw a cactus" "Bring me some cheese with that, please" AYYYE IT'S ME THE UPDATE QUEEN. Sry this makes no sense. No triggers? LY guys. Don't die!  
**

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Everything was moving...so fast.

Stan sighed as he pulled his sweater over his head. It was hard to wrap his head around it all. Of course, taking that term literally, you can't actually 'wrap your head' around something without dying...but I'm already off topic.

Stan was...not confused. No, he _understood_ what was going on. Right? He was in his brother's house, with his brother. It didn't _seem_ confusing. Yet he was...tense. His entire being was begging him to return to his car and just...drive away. He wanted to run, but there was nothing wrong? In fact, this had been the best day of his entire adulthood! He had a full belly, a remorseful Ford, _and_ a new friend...? He hoped the Stick liked him anyway. It was...

It was something out of a dream.

He stared at the wall for a moment, processing, until he shook the thought away. He couldn't think like that.

The sweater fell to the floor as his hands unclenched, leaving his arms and chest bare. He frowned as the cool air hit the unbandaged portions of his torso. Although it had been suffocating, the sweater had been warm.

He ignored the cold in favor of checking the bandages. He was still weak from his time spent in Rico's 'care'.

He wished Ford could have waited a bit longer before inviting him, or that he made some sort of excuse to delay the visit, instead of just _agreeing._ But no, he had to just _agree_. Like the idiot he was. He took in a deep breath.

 _It's just for a few days, then I can leave._ Stan nodded to himself as he tugged on the bloodied fabric, pulling it up to see the cut. He winced as pain shot through his hand, making him drop the bandage's edge. It slapped back onto his stomach and he grunted as it stung the wound. Although the cuts on his arms and stomach looked worse (even after healing considerably) Breaking his thumbs had left his hands almost permanently damaged.

It wasn't that he didn't know how to splint a broken appendage, he just didn't ever have the _time._ He needed his hands, always. He couldn't afford to just...stop using them. He tried his best to keep them from melding wrong, but he had a feeling they would be a bit disfigured, presumably for the rest of his life.

The thought had made him snort, at the time. _Guess I'm gettin' more and more like Sixer every day. Wearin' sweaters and having two funky fingers..._ He smiled. That wasn't such a bad thought. Ford had many things Stan admired. He also had many things Stan _didn't_ admire. But if he had to choose, he...probably wouldn't have chosen Ford's sense of style or hand problems.

Eh, he was being honest. Those really _weren't_ Ford's best qualities.

Happily distracted in his thoughts, he managed to finish checking his _super chill battle wounds_. Yeah...that sounds less terrifying. (I am soooo not editing this.)

A small laceration on his side was mostly healed over. He smiled as he unraveled the medical wrap and threw it in his bag. He hadn't really _unpacked_ per se...but it wasn't like he was staying for very long, so who cared?

Even so, he couldn't leave the bandage there for very long. He wondered if anyone one would notice if he started washing them in a sink. He had learned the hard way, that blood and fabric don't mix well when left unattended.

He decided he would hold off on that until either a good time presented itself, or he found another means of washing his meager belongings. He had tried beforehand, but laundromats and motels weren't known for their impeccable clothing cleaners. {Eh, maybe I will edit this later.}

He lifted out the only other sweater he had stolen. It was gray and of slightly less quality than the blue one. Plausibly do to the fact that the blue one had been bought. The gray one...not so much.

He shrugged it on, ignoring the way it made his arms itch. At least he was warm again. He was about to try and figure out what he was going to do next {lol, isn't that my job?} when a knock sounded at the door. He jumped, still wired with stress.

 _Heh, when am I not?_

He cleared his throat, "C'mon in."

The door opened to reveal Ford, a small smile adorning his features. Stan stood up, pushing his bag with the bloody bandages behind him in the same motion.

Ford blinked, "Oh. Um..." He trailed off, mouthing something beneath his breath.

"Uh...hey." Stan stepped closer, pulling the sleeves of his sweater further over his hands.

Ford looked up, his eyes unfocused, "Greetings. Um...RIGHT!"

Stan jerked away at the loud noise, falling against the edge of the bed. Ford lunged forward but was too far away to be of any assistance.

"Stanley! Sorry, I was just trying to remember why I was bothering you" Ford sent him an apologetic glance and held up a finger, "Just wait here, I have something for you." Ford turned out of the doorway and Stan heard his footsteps fade out.

Was he holding his breath? He breathed in deep and groaned, falling back on the bed with a thump. Nothing made sense anymore. The entire day felt unreal.

Stan's face scrunched up, almost as if he were in pain, as he realized what felt so off.

It was that there was _nothing_ wrong. Everything was going smoothly. Ford apologized just earlier that day. He got to have fun...eat food...stay in a bed with an _actual roof_ over his head.

It was _too_ perfect. He scowled at the ceiling.

 _I'm calling bullcrap._ He thought. So what if he was addressing the universe at large? So nothing. Because _nothing made sense._

 _What's happening, really?  
_

* * *

 **Whaaaaat!? I would never change the plot on you guys! EXCEPT THAT I WOULD.**

 **This is what I get for not updating for so long...ahhhhh. ILY GUYS! SORRY, THIS IS UNEDITED. I hope it makes sense later.**

 **Ford: This makes less sense than Stanley after three sandwiches.**

 **Stan: What!? What are you implying!?**

 **Ford: ...That you get loopy off sandwiches? I'm not sure.**

 **Fiddleford: ...now I kinda want a sandwich...**

 **Lol, I was gonna update the campfire au but I didn't. Hope you enjoyed and please feel free to review!**


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